


The Gates of Paradise

by DestinyWolfe



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Adventure, All my favorite tropes, Angst, Anxiety, Camping, Canon Universe, Civil War, Flashbacks, Fluff, For reasons, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Pining, Post CACW, Post Civil War, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Road Trip, Slow Burn, a little bit slow burn, all-american road trip, area 51, bed sharing, but there will be MUCH canon divergence, civil war spoilers, clintasha pepperony and stucky should all be canon anyway ngl, except for stevebucky's relationship, geriatric supersoldier boyfriends, i mean pepperony is but y'know, it is so pure and good, mcu - Freeform, non canon pairings but do i give a single fuck no, shady everything tbh, shady politics, shady-ass military operations, stevebucky roadtrip, stucky cuteness, this story begins right where civil war left off
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-10 15:35:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6991444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestinyWolfe/pseuds/DestinyWolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Post-Civil War. There will possibly be spoilers for allof the MCU movies released before June of 2016.)</p><p>When Bucky went into cryo-freeze in Wakanda, he thought he was giving up everything--his chance at life, love, and the possibility of redeeming himself for the crimes he committed under HYDRA's control. So when he wakes up in 2017 in a vault under a secret military base in Nevada, he has a LOT of questions. Unfortunately, no one seems to know the answers, and the harder he searches for them, the more questions he uncovers.</p><p>Meanwhile, intent on finding and capturing Captain America and the Secret Avengers, General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross hires the world's most talented personality assassin: Dick Spanker, an ex-comics writer with a talent for coming up with absurd, horrifying smear campaigns. </p><p>(I started writing this right after Civil War came out, but due to recent events, I've retconned the story to include my new least favorite person, Dick Spanker. Also, this is taking a lot of brainpower to write, since I haven't had a lot of experience writing some of the characters involved and I really want to do them all justice. Which means updates will be slow for a while.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

_Loving me will not be easy. It will be war. You will hold the gun and I will hand you the bullets. So breathe, and embrace the beauty of the massacre that lies ahead._ – R.M. Drake 

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**CHAPTER ONE**

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_TIME: 2:31 a.m., May 18, 2017_

_LOCATION: Groom Lake Road, Nevada, USA_

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“Turn the fucking car around.” 

“Shut up; I’m driving.” 

“Wilson, turn this fucking car around _right now,_ or I swear to god I’ll--” 

“What? Rip the steering wheel outta my hands?” Sam took his eyes off the road just long enough to give Bucky a withering look. His eyes flashed in the dim light of a lonely orange streetlight as they sped by. “Don’t think I've forgotten that shit, T-1000.” 

Bucky sank back against the leather and foam of the stolen Camaro’s passenger seat. His fingers—five flesh and five metal—wrapped in a stranglehold around the arm rests. Sam made a sudden right turn, and the Camaro’s wheels squealed on the asphalt. Bucky had the distinct feeling that the rests were about to come right off in his hands. 

Behind them, sirens blared to life. Bucky whirled around. Blue, white, and red lights flashed behind their car, illuminating the dark stretch of road between them and their pursuers. 

“We’ve got three on our tail,” he said. Clenching his teeth and setting his jaw, he turned back toward the front, flexing his fingers around leather and plastic. “Not a big surprise, seeing as we’re in a fucking bright green muscle car.” 

Sam made a sharp left turn. Bucky slammed against the interior of the passenger door, letting out a sharp hiss of pain. Sitting up and rubbing his shoulder—not that it was even bruised, but that wasn’t really the point—he snarled, “That was deliberate.” 

“One-hundred percent,” Sam replied, without a hint of remorse. There was a little upward tilt to his mouth. Despite everything—despite the shit situation and the imminent threat of death-by-law-enforcement—at least the fucking Falcon seemed to be enjoying himself. 

“C’mon, Birdbrain. Ditch the Camaro.” Bucky glanced over his shoulder—the sirens were closing in fast now—and felt a burst of adrenaline flood his system. “Who the fuck taught you how to go on the run, anyway? Fuckin’ _green_ sports car…” 

Sam slammed his foot down hard on the brakes. The car skidded to a halt, screaming loudly in protest as gravel and asphalt shredded the treads on its tires. For a moment they just sat there, the car’s hood smoking faintly, and the night lights of a distant truck stop along their otherwise unoccupied route twinkling like stars in a midnight sky. “It’s an Avengers thing,” Sam said. His chest was heaving. The skin over his knuckles was stretched so tight Bucky thought it might split, he was holding onto the wheel so hard. “You have to have a cool car.” 

“What the fuck’re you doing?” Bucky snarled. “If they catch up, we’re dead.” 

“Stark has that orange Lamborghini,” Sam said, as if he couldn’t hear Bucky at all. As if this was just a normal conversation in a bar, or over a nice meal. “Natasha has the black Corvette. It’s only fair that I get to drive this.” 

“Lime green,” Bucky said, through clenched teeth, “is the brightest color on the visible spectrum to humans. Why do you think runners always wear green stripes on their clothes?” 

“Definitely not for the fashion appeal.” 

Bucky clenched his fists, fighting the urge to scream, or push Sam out of the driver’s seat; maybe both. “Wilson, if you don’t move your ass right now…” 

Sam held up a hand for silence. “Man, shut the hell up. I know what I’m doing.” 

The sirens were deafening now. Shadows cast in red and blue fell around them, like blood and water spilled on dusty concrete. Two of the three squad cars pulled in on either side of the Camaro, blaring a warning to the still night: _“Turn off your engine and exit the vehicle slowly. Keep your hands up, or we’ll shoot. I repeat: we have orders to kill if necessary.”_

Sam grimaced. His forehead creased with concentration. “Where’s the third car?” he asked in an undertone. 

Bucky risked a glance out the back, keeping every movement slow in case the cops outside could see him. He let out his breath in a long, low hiss. “Right behind us.” 

“Damn,” Sam’s jaw ticked. “I really liked this car.” 

Bucky didn’t even have time to scream in protest before the Camaro was speeding backward. He braced himself for impact, clinging to the passenger seat with both hands, the back of his head pressed back against the headrest. As their bumper struck that of the third squad car, he felt leather puncture and tear under the strain of his metal hand. He lurched forward, along with everything else in the vehicle. Before he even had time to take a proper breath, they were moving forward again; Sam smashed into the car to their left with the Camaro’s nose, effectively crumpling the passenger door, then backed violently into the one that had pulled up on their right. The sound of metal screeching against metal pierced Bucky’s ears. The smell of smoke and burning rubber filled the air. 

As Sam spun the Camaro around and took off down the street, leaving the cops yelling for backup and cussing them out in long, loud strings of oaths, Bucky turned and glared openly at him. “What. The. Holy. _Fuck._ Wilson.” 

“What?” Sam shrugged. He looked shaken up—of course he did, he’d just _intentionally crashed a stolen car into three police vehicles,_ for god’s sake—but if it weren’t for the sweat gleaming on his face and the tremor in his hands, his overall demeanor might suggest that he’d just been out for a nice, peaceful drive down an empty Nevada road. Which would be the truth, Bucky thought, if it weren’t for whoever had tipped off the local law enforcement to their location. “I’m already running from those guys,” Sam said. “It’s not like they can put me anywhere worse than the Raft.” 

Bucky didn’t have an answer for that. Instead, he pressed himself against the ruined leather of his seat and didn’t speak for a long time.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you so much to everyone who read/commented/left Kudos on this fic so far! I'm super excited to continue working on this story; the support I got was super encouraging, and I managed to get another chapter down this weekend. Again, thank you x 100000 to everyone reading! <3

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**CHAPTER TWO**

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_TIME: 48 hours ago_

_LOCATION: Area 51, Nevada, USA_

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The first thing he was aware of was the sound. A high, thin, piercing whine, like a mosquito in his ear. Instinctively he raised his hand to bat it away, and was surprised to find that his arm wouldn’t move. A shock of panic ran through him like a live wire. _Where am I? What’s going on?_

His questions were answered a moment later, when his eyes flew open. He was bathed in a dull, colorless light. There was something across his chest and thighs—straps, he realized—and he was achingly, breath-stoppingly cold. Ahead of him was a blank white wall. Beneath him was an equally unadorned tile floor. And all around him was a shell of plastic, metal, and glass. _The cryo machine,_ he realized, and everything came rushing back in a blur of memory and pain. 

_“I can’t trust my own mind,”_ he remembered saying. He’d smiled then, or tried to. There had been a deep, beating agony in his chest as he’d stepped into the machine. He’d done his best to keep his expression calm. Peaceful. Because he couldn’t let Steve see his fear, couldn’t… 

_Steve,_ he thought, and in his mind’s eye he saw a flash of seafoam-blue eyes, hair like sunshine, and a pink mouth dripping scarlet but parted in a snarl of defiance. The man who had stood Tony Stark and his revenge with the unflinching belief that Bucky—the Winter Soldier, the Fist of Hydra, the deadliest assassin in the world—was worth saving. 

“Steve,” Bucky said. Tasting the word on his tongue. He was surprised when his lips responded, curving around the sound of the name. It came out in a puff of white air. “Steve?” 

There was no reply. He was alone; he hadn’t expected one. No, what he had expected when he opened his eyes was pain, pain and the pinch of needles, voices asking him to report his status, like he was just another part of the machine around him… 

Shaking himself, he flexed the fingers of his right hand… and felt something twitch to his left. Turning his head just enough, he looked down at the place where his metal arm had been. He received his second shock when he saw that the missing appendage had been replaced. Newly polished silver glinted in the sterile overhead lights. He clenched his fists, and the gleaming fingers curled and flexed easily. “Okay,” he said aloud. To break the eerie silence pressing in around him. “What the hell’s going on?” 

Again, there was no one to answer him. Lifting his hands to his chest, he struggled for a moment with the straps, wrenching them off and falling forward against the front of the tank. Pressing his hands flat against the glass—or was it plastic? He couldn’t quite tell—he just breathed. In, out. In, out. “Hey,” he called once he’d managed to steady himself. “Who turned this goddamn thing off?” His voice broke. He cleared his throat, wincing as the stiff muscles in his neck were pulled taut. “Hello?” He slammed his fist—the flesh one, the one that wouldn’t leave a mark—against the glass cover. “Steve? T'Challa? Guys? I’m awake in here! What’s going on?” 

The silence was heavier than Bucky’s half-thawed limbs. It folded around him, trapping him in its suffocating embrace. His vision was blurring, his throat was tight. There was a faint tingling sensation in the fingers of his right hand. 

In a flash, he realized that he was running out of air. _The tank’s airtight,_ he thought. Instinct flared, red hot, in his chest. _I have to get outta here._ Pulling back his metal fist, he slammed it against the glass. Again, again, again. Until the thick, stubborn material cracked and shattered under the force of his blows. 

Hesitantly, Bucky stepped out onto the tiled floor. Shards of glass stuck to his bare feet; he carefully brushed them off. Picking his way across the mess toward the door at the far end of the room, he kept every inch of his being alert. Ready for anything. _If Steve didn’t mean to wake me up, then who did?_ Maybe the machine had malfunctioned. 

It had never done that before. 

The door handle was blissfully warm as Bucky touched it with the tips of his right fingers. He pressed his palm against the door—it was as warm as the handle—and paused, listening intently. _Something’s wrong._

_BZZZ. BZZZ. BZZZ._ Bucky leapt as something vibrated against his thigh. With his heart hammering and adrenaline flooding his bloodstream, he stepped back from the door, bracing himself for a fight. It took him a moment to realize that the buzzing was coming from the same place as the vibration. Plunging his hand into his pocket, he pulled out a slender, elegant white phone. The screen glowed green and white. _Call from 000-000-0000._

Something outside the room slammed into the door, hard. Bucky jumped again, gripping the phone so hard he was afraid the screen might've cracked. He slid the vibrating device back into his pocket, clenching his fists as he watched the door handle shake and twist. _Someone’s trying to get in,_ he thought. _Someone without a key._

In Bucky’s not-so-limited experience, that was a serious red flag. 

Turning away from the exit, he desperately scanned the rest of the room for an alternate escape route. There was nothing. The sharp angles and planes of the walls were unbroken. Bare and smooth. So he did the only other thing he could think of. Crossing to the cryo machine in three long strides, he crouched, gathering the largest shards of splintered glass in his metal hand. He whirled back toward the door as a second, more violent collision caused it to buckle on its hinges. 

“Stand clear!” a voice called. It was sharp and authoritative, with a cutting edge of determination. Bucky could have sworn he’d heard it before. “Stay back from the door, men. We’re going in in ten.” 

Full-blown panic was setting in now, and Bucky still didn’t have a better plan than attacking these guys—whoever they were—before they could get him down. 

"Nine. Eight. Seven. Six." The door buckled heavily on the third impact. "Five. Four. Three. Two." One of the hinges bust open; a screw shot across the room and embedded in the wall just over Bucky’s shoulder, next to the cryo machine. Gritting his teeth, Bucky grabbed the tank’s frame, letting out a sharp gasp of exertion as he dragged it across the floor toward the exit. The contraption left deep gouges in the tiles, uprooting a few of them and sending them skittering across the floor like waterskippers on a still lake. 

“Ready?” The voice spoke again. This time it was joined by two others—one male, one female. Neither familiar. “Ready,” they confirmed. 

So was Bucky. When the door flew off its hinges, slamming into the ground in front of him with the terrible crunch of metal on porcelain, he ducked behind the cryo tank, letting it shield him from the flying debris. "One!" 

“Where is he?” he heard the first man saying as the thick dust—consisting of ruined insulation, cement, and drywall--settled. Bucky crouched, breath shallow and right palm slick with sweat, as three pairs of footsteps came closer. “They told me there was no way he could get out,” the woman was saying. Her accent was thick—something mid-European; Bucky couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “That the Asset was secure for transfer.” 

_There is a way out._ Bucky clenched his teeth. The edges of the glass shards in his left hand slipped between the gaps in his metal joints, leaving embedded splinters. _Through you._

Taking a deep breath, he launched himself into the open. Like a wolf felling a herd of startled deer, he was on the three agents before they even knew what was happening. Glass and metal struck flesh and bone, tearing and breaking. His opponents fell apart like eggs dropped on concrete, their lives spilling in crimson rivers across the crisp white tiles. 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” one man exclaimed. The one whose voice Bucky had recognized. _Ex-Hydra. Has to be._ Bucky left him for last, dropping his two companions in a blur of unstoppable violence. _They’re not taking me back._ The thought consumed him, driving him as he slashed out wildly at his last opponent; the improvised blade of glass dug deep into the man’s neck. The agent let out a gurgling cry as he sank to his knees. His hands scrabbled uselessly at the shard protruding just above his collar bone. Slick red coated his fingers, dripping down his white lab coat. Red on white, darkness overtaking light. 

When they were all dead, Bucky turned and ran. He ran without thinking. Driven by the knowledge that, if he stayed in that horrible room with the blood and the bodies for one moment longer, he would fall apart. _If they’re here,_ he thought, taking a sharp turn down yet another blank white hall, _more might be more coming._ He was breathless, but not from exertion. His heart pounded. _I can’t let them take me again. I’d rather die._

The hallway ended abruptly in a locked steel door. Bucky slammed against it with all his quite considerable strength; it dented, then bent, before falling forward with a reluctant groan and crash. Beyond it was a field of sand, stretching away into the oppressive darkness of night. Cold air—colder even than the machine had been, and that was saying something—hit his face. He shuddered, and for a moment the sand faded as memories overtook him. _He was standing in the crimson snow beneath a new moon. There was blood on his hands, his face, in his mouth. The gun in his hand—the right one, the weak one, the human one—shook with the rest of his body. He was on fire. Something—guilt, he realized dully—was burning him up from the inside out. He felt sick, too weak for this, he wasn’t ready, oh god, he wasn’t ready…_

He was shaken out of the flashback by the violent roaring of a car’s engine. Snapping back to reality, he dove into the shadows just as a sleek black government van pulled up in front of the entrance where he stood. The van came to a standstill, but the engine never died. Voices came drifting out of a half-opened window, low and urgent. 

“If they’re not here in ten, we move out.” 

“They haven’t checked in yet. The damn com’s dead; I’ve been reading static for the last five minutes.” 

“They’ll come. If someone had caught them, there’d be guards swarming this place.” 

“What if—” 

“It’s a damn extraction mission. The fucking Asset is in stasis, for god’s sake. How goddamn hard can it be? Fucking amateurs. Shoulda sent me in. At least I know how to operate a damn com.” 

Bucky crept back toward the exit, pressing himself against the wall as the van’s passenger door creaked open. The dull thud of booted feet hitting concrete sent a new flood of fear and anticipation rushing through his body. 

“Where’re you going?” The man still inside the car asked, sounding apprehensive. 

“Getting weapons outta the back,” his companion replied. There was the distinctive groan of double doors being pried apart. “Never know when we might have company.” 

Against Bucky’s leg, the phone began to vibrate again. It didn’t ring this time. Just hummed gently, like a satisfied cat. With baited breath, he reached into his pocket and pulled it out, gripping it tightly as he checked the screen. _Call from 000-000-0000._ Steeling himself, he hit _‘Answer’_ , and pressed it to his ear. 

_“Get in the van.”_ The voice on the other end was soft but sharp. Feminine and commanding. A young woman, by the sound of it. _“Kill the man in the back, but leave the driver. He’s one of mine. Once you’re in, tap twice on the divisor screen just behind the driver’s head. He’ll get you out of here before reinforcements arrive.”_ Before Bucky could answer, the line went dead. 

Outside, the second man was digging around in the back of the van. The sharp clank of metal on metal rang through the still desert air. The man seemed to be counting. Taking inventory, maybe. 

“Alright, think we’ve got everything we need here.” The man stepped back, one hand on either door, bracing himself. He peered into the trunk for a few more moments, blinking against the dim red glow of the vehicle’s brake lights. “Guns, grenades, gas… think we can take ‘em with all that, if it comes down to it?” 

“Yeah,” the man in the front replied, “but you won’t get the chance.” 

“Why not?” The man in the back slammed the trunk doors. Stepped back, fishing in his pocket for the keys. 

“You’ll be too dead for that.” 

Bucky took this as his cue. Darting out of hiding, he launched himself across the mixed sand and gravel driveway toward the man behind the van. Wrapping one arm—the right one, he found that it molded against flesh better—around the unlucky man’s throat to muffle his scream. Bucky finished him off with a quick, brutal twist of his torso. The man’s neck snapped. His silent scream cut off as blood bubbled into his mouth, drooling down his chin. 

Climbing into the back of the van (and nearly wrenching off the doors in his haste to do so) Bucky slammed his hand twice against the sheet of plastic separating the cargo hold from the driver’s seat. The van started moving at once. The wheels ground against the loose rock and sand as the driver pulled away from the building where Bucky had awoken only minutes before. 

Through the small, barred back windows, Bucky watched the concrete and steel compound fade into the night. Dust and sand kicked up by skidding wheels clouded the already dimly lit scene, making it hard to know exactly what he was seeing. From what was visible of the building, it appeared to be some sort of small military storage facility. The part of the compound visible above ground was limited to 300 or so square feet, but Bucky knew it was much larger than that. A big part of it must be underground. 

“Hey.” Bucky turned back toward the driver. He slammed his fist hard against the plastic to get the man’s attention. “Where’re we going?” 

The driver didn’t respond. He stayed facing forward, his hands curled lightly around the wheel. He didn’t even flinch at the harsh rapping of metal knuckles on the divider behind him. 

_What the hell._ Bucky pulled out the phone in his pocket. He hit the _‘redial’_ button, holding his breath as he pressed the device to his ear. It didn’t even ring. Whoever had been calling must have set up a system of one-way communication. “C’mon,” he growled. He replaced the phone in his pocket, flexing his fingers nervously as he contemplated his next move. 

And then the driver decided for him. They’d been traveling down a clear, straight path for the last few minutes, steadily heading away from the compound. Until the van suddenly pulled over. The engine cut out. The lights went dead. And, even through the supposedly soundproof glass separating him from the driver, Bucky heard the distinct _click-clunk_ of someone sliding a new magazine into a handgun. 

He moved without thinking. Without considering the consequences. Pulling back his metal fist, he slammed it into the division screen, hard. Unlike the much harder plastic of the cryo machine, this barrier took only two punches to shatter. And when it did, The Winter Soldier—because, in his panic, he didn’t feel like Bucky anymore—grabbed the driver by the back of the neck and pulled him back against his seat so hard his spine shattered. When Bucky let go, the man’s head hung limp against his breathless chest, blood trickling from his nose and mouth. The half-loaded handgun fell from lifeless fingers. 

Pushing the corpse out of his way, Bucky climbed into the driver’s seat. He picked up the gun, finished loading it, and tucked it into the console beside him. Taking a deep, calming breath, he wrapped his fingers around the wheel, and ignited the engine. 

He was just pulling back onto the road when the phone began to vibrate. He considered ignoring it—after all, whoever it was couldn’t be happy with this change of plan—or throwing the phone out the van’s window, but decided against it. _I need to find out who she is,_ he thought, and answered the call. 

_“Slick move, Barnes.”_ It was the same voice as before. The woman sounded exasperated now, and maybe a little resigned. _“Now we’ve got another body to explain. And you’re about to have company.”_

Somewhere in the distance behind him, sirens began to wail. 

_“Listen closely,”_ the woman continued, before Bucky could speak. _“You’re going to need to ditch that van. Area 51 security already caught it on camera; it’s not clean.”_

“Area 51? What?” Bucky’s head spun. His was gripping the wheel so hard that it was beginning to bend away from him. Metal and leather twisting under the strain of his anxiety. 

_“2,000 meters up the road is a wide shoulder. Pull over there. Walk at a ninety-degree angle away from the street to your left, and you’ll find someone who’ll get you out of here.”_ She paused, the gentle sound of her breathing filling the silence. _“I know you don’t trust me. But if you want to live, you need to do what I say.”_

“And what if I don’t?” Bucky’s heart was racing. His mouth was bone-dry. 2,000 meters was fading quickly in front of him. The shoulder was in sight ahead. 

_“Then you go back to them.”_ A threat. A reality. _“Do you really want everything Steve did for you to go to waste?”_

Bucky felt, for a moment, as if someone had violently forced all the air out of his lungs. Realization crashed over him like a tidal wave rushing ashore. “Romanov,” he said. 

_“Who?”_ she replied, but he recognized it now: the small fluctuations in her tone. The way she spoke, the way words formed on her tongue. She may have found a way to change the pitch and gravel of her voice, but she couldn’t disguise everything. _“Listen, Barnes. I’m going to turn off this phone now. I won’t call again. I need to know you’re going to do what I said.”_

“I will,” he replied, and meant it. 

The van door groaned in protest as he slammed it behind him. The shoulder where Natasha Romanov had instructed him to pull over was located along a sharp drop in the otherwise flat landscape; below, a long-dry river gorge cut a short but deep path through the desert. For a moment, Bucky stood taking in the scenery, hands clenching and unclenching as he scanned the area for any sight or sound of pursuers. In the far distance, back in the direction he’d come from, sirens still sounded. Blue and crimson lights flashed intermittently. Which was strange, he realized. Secret military bases, in his experience, usually didn’t own police cars. 

_But the government owns the local police,_ he reminded himself. Turning away from the gorge, he crossed the road, and stepped out into the desert. It was only then that he realized he was still barefooted. The sand stuck to the cuts in the soles of his feet where shards of the cryo machine had sliced them open. _They can track me,_ he thought, noting the faint smears of red he was leaving behind him. _Especially if they have dogs._ He crouched low to the ground, tore off two strips of his shirt, and wrapped them tightly around the gashes. _Close enough._

Up ahead, something flashed. On and off. A brief and blinding signal. Slowly rising to his feet, Bucky blinked away the dark spots in his vision, narrowing his eyes as he struggled to make out anything abnormal in the shape of the desert ahead. There it was—a glint of artificial color. Bright green. A car, small and sporty by the look of it. _What the fuck?_ That couldn’t be the _‘someone who will get you out of here’_ that Natasha had been talking about. No way in hell would anyone trying to get away from a secret military base undetected with a valuable asset make the boneheaded fucking decision to drive a bright neon-green sports car. _Would they?_

Apparently, _they_ would. “Hey.” It was Sam Wilson. He rolled down the window on the driver’s side, leaning out just far enough that Bucky could see the silhouette of his shoulder and head against the very faint light of the rising moon. “No complaining. No questions. Just get in the damn car.” 

Bucky opened his mouth, tried to think of something to say, failed, and closed it again. Moving as quickly and quietly as possible—not that stealth really mattered when their escape vehicle was a fucking beacon—he made his way to the passenger side and slid in. The door snapped shut behind him. 

Sam took a deep breath. Put his hands firmly on the wheel. “Put your seatbelt on,” he commanded. “This is about to get rough.” 

In the distance behind them, the muted flashing of police lights grew closer. Sirens wailed like wounded animals as the local PD vehicles closed in. 

Bucky took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable fuckery that lay ahead.


	3. Chapter Three

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**CHAPTER THREE**

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_TIME: 8:35 p.m., May 29, 2017_

_LOCATION: Ginko Petrified Forest, Washington, USA_

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Bucky awoke with a lurch as the car’s engine cut out. He sat straight up, his vision blurry and his head spinning from recent sleep, and swiftly scanned his surroundings. Once he realized he was safe in Sam’s car (if that could be considered _‘safe’_ ), he let his shoulders fall. “Hey,” he said, turning toward the driver’s side. “Where are we?” 

“Eastern Washington,” Sam replied. He didn’t look at Bucky. Just put the car in park, pulled back on the emergency brake, and unlocked his door. “Not the capital Washington. The state.” 

Bucky watched him get out, blinking as the driver’s door slammed shut. A few seconds later, the car’s lights went off, leaving him alone in the half-dark of sundown. Sliding down in his seat and tipping it back, he let his head fall against the leather, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes slid shut again. For some reason, he was utterly exhausted. _Must be the drugs,_ he thought. Before he’d been frozen, they’d given him something—a gas to knock him out--before the cold could set in. _Must still be in my system._ Ever since Sam had ditched the cops, which had been a while ago, the adrenaline keeping Bucky alert had disappeared, leaving him listless and groggy. 

Someone tapped on the window. Jolting upright, he instinctively reached for a knife that wasn’t there. Clenching his fists and bracing himself for the possibility of a fight, he pressed the button beside his window labeled _'down'_. At his touch, the window rolled down into the door. A breath of fresh air hit his face as the cool winds buffeting the car slipped through the newly created opening. 

It was Natasha. She stood with one hand on her hip, the other resting on the frame of the passenger door. “Barnes,” she said, her lips turning up slightly at the corners when she saw him. “There’s someone out here dying to see you.” 

“Steve?” Bucky didn’t need any other incentive. He was out of the car in seconds. “Where is he?” he asked, shaking his head to clear it. Strands of long, dark hair fell into his eyes. 

Natasha tilted her head, watching him with that unreadable expression of hers. “Over by your new ride,” she replied, cocking one elegantly shaped eyebrow. Behind her, an expanse of sage-covered brown hills rolled away toward the horizon, where the sun was setting in a blaze of crimson and gold. 

But it wasn't that that truly caught Bucky’s eye. Not the deep, rich blues of the sky as night set in, or the amber fire of the sinking sun. Instead, it was the bright eggshell-blue of Steve’s eyes as they turned toward him, bright and excited, and the sandy blond of Steve’s hair as the fading light crowned him in gold. Like a fallen angel, Bucky thought; he swayed slightly in place, swallowing hard. 

“Buck!” Steve’s smile was unabashedly large as he pushed off from the car he’d been leaning on—a bronze four-door Subaru—and strode across the dry grass toward his childhood friend. Behind him, Sam Wilson watched with crossed arms and raised eyebrows. 

“Stevie.” Bucky’s voice was strangely hoarse. Steve reached him, and for a moment they just stood there, feet apart, hands awkwardly clenched at their sides. Each one’s longing reflected in the other’s eyes. 

“Thank god you’re safe, Buck.” Steve’s smile grew tight. There were shadow under his eyes. Up close, Bucky could see the etchings worry had left in Steve’s face. “Sorry I wasn’t there to—” 

“C’mere, you stupid punk,” Bucky said. The words were rough and raw with emotion. He stepped forward, reaching up and sliding his arms around Steve’s midriff. He took hold of Steve’s jacket—suede leather, by the feel and smell of it—and pulled them flush against each other. “Missed you,” he mumbled into the fabric, tucking his head against Steve’s neck and his face into Steve’s broad shoulder. 

Steve reciprocated without hesitation. Bucky relished the feeling of safety that crept over him as strong, familiar, gentle hands came to rest on his back, holding him tight. Like a dying man clutching at a lifeline as it slipped through his fingers. 

_And how many times have I slipped through your fingers?_ Bucky closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. Reveling in the existence of the man pressed against him. This amazing, glorious, _stupidly brave_ man who had, for some reason Bucky didn’t understand, chosen him over all else. This man who had looked at a worn-out, world-weary assassin with oceans of blood on his hands and thought, _This one. This one deserves to be saved._ This man who was Bucky’s everything, his first and last breath, his salvation and his redemption, his guiding star. His light at the end of the tunnel. 

Bucky was suddenly overwhelmed by the impossibility of it all, the sheer incredibility of the fact that, in a world where he could have had anything and anyone, Steven Grant Rogers had chosen Bucky Barnes. 

Behind Bucky, Natasha made a little sound at the back of her throat. “Rogers. Barnes.” 

Back by the bronze Subaru, Sam burst out laughing. “Maybe we should leave them to it, Nat. Wouldn’t want to break up these grandpas when they’re having a _moment.”_

“You’re a little shit, Wilson.” Bucky pulled away from Steve, reluctant to end the contact but determined for Sam to feel the full power of his glare. 

Sam shrugged, grinning shamelessly. “Hey, man. At least I have a sense of humor.” 

“Boys.” Natasha fixed them both with a _look,_ effectively cutting Bucky off before he could retaliate. “Concentrate. We have some real problems here that need addressing.” 

“Sorry, Nat.” Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and having the good grace to look apologetic on his friends’ behalfs. “You’re right. We need to figure out what’s going on.” 

“No,” Natasha replied. She gave Steve a sad, small smile. “Not _‘we’,_ Rogers. You’re going to take Barnes and run. Go into hiding. Stay under the radar, no matter what. Wilson and I are going back to Nevada to meet up with Barton and find out how and why the U.S. military managed to steal a cryofreeze container out of a high-security Wakandan facility.” 

“That’s right,” Sam said. He took a step away from the Subaru, back toward the Camaro. “It’s too dangerous for Barnes to be around anyone with access to HYDRA files, Steve, you know that. And if there’s anyone who’s gonna have access to those files, it’s the U.S. military.” 

Bucky looked between them. From Sam, to Natasha, and finally to Steve. He saw the battle being waged in Steve’s mind; it was written in the churning chaos of those familiar blue eyes. 

“Look, Rogers.” Natasha tone was surprisingly gentle as she took a step toward Steve, resting a hand on his forearm. “I know he might never grow the balls to say it out loud, but Barnes needs you right now. Not me, not Wilson, not Barton.” She turned her gaze on Bucky, trapping him in the tractor-beam of her gaze. "You." 

“Listen, Steve, if you need to go—” Bucky began, but Natasha’s stare turned withering, and he swallowed his words. “She’s right,” he said, sighing resignedly. “Fuck me, but she’s totally right. I have no idea what’s goin’ on here, Stevie, and I’d sure as hell love to have you with me while I work it out. I do need you, as it turns out.” He laughed a short, quick bark of a laugh. 

Sam made a noise suspiciously like a gag. Natasha was smirking very slightly. And Steve… well, Steve was beaming like it was the goddamn Fourth of July, the sappy idiot. 

“Shut up, all of you,” Bucky muttered, even though no one had technically said anything. “If you’re gonna go infiltrate Area 51, you better get moving. There’s no such thing as too much planning time. And don’t forget to bring some shoes you can actually run in, Scully,” he added, shooting Natasha a meaningful look. 

Natasha looked mildly impressed. “You’ve watched _The X-Files?”_

“I was on my own for two years with nothing to do but buy groceries and watch TV,” Bucky said, shrugging. That wasn’t strictly true, of course; there had also been the minor issues of reassembling himself and his history from newspaper clippings and the shattered fragments of memory HYDRA had left him with. But really, who was counting? 

Natasha smiled. She moved around the back of the Camaro, putting one hand on the driver’s door handle. Turning to Sam, she lifted one eyebrow dramatically. “Coming, Mulder?” 

“You driving?” Sam walked past Steve and Bucky. As he passed, he clapped Steve on the shoulder—a silent farewell. He reached the bright green car, eyeing Natasha with a spark in his eye. “You sure your short little legs can reach the pedals, Scully?” 

“Oh, you did not just go there,” Natasha replied as she ducked inside. She moved the seat forward, shifting against the leather and foam in search of a more comfortable position. 

“Oh, yes I did.” Sam flashed a grin at Steve, who returned the gesture with a little shake of his head. Wrenching open the passenger-side door, Sam followed Natasha inside the Camaro, slamming it shut behind him. Looking back out at Steve and Bucky through the open window, he gave the former a quick salute. “Have a good vacation, Cap,” he said. 

Steve returned the gesture. “Good luck, Sam,” he said. 

Natasha rolled down her window as she began to pull back out onto the main road. “Don’t forget to visit Ginko Petrified Forest,” she said. “It’s just up the road, along the river.” 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, “you should feel right at home with all the fossilized trees.” 

“They were probably alive when you were kids,” Natasha added. 

“I hate you guys,” Bucky complained. 

“Don’t forget to take all your medications and vitamins while we’re gone! And don’t lose your fake teeth; those things are expensive!” The Camaro’s tires squealed as Natasha did a sharp U-turn and took off down the road. The last Bucky saw of them, Natasha was smirking widely, and Sam was cackling like a hyena. Not for the first time, he wondered how Steve had ended up with such annoying friends. 

“So, uh—” Steve began, but cut himself off. Bucky turned to see him rubbing the back of his neck, looking sheepish. There was a half-embarrassed smile lingering on his lips.“You want to find somewhere to crash for the night?” 

“Yeah, we could do that,” Bucky replied, “or we could keep our car on the road and find a place to sleep like normal people.” 

Steve stared at him for what felt like a very long time before it seemed to dawn on him that Bucky had just made a joke. Then his blank expression broke into one of amusement, his grin as warm and beautiful as the last light of the setting sun behind him. "Ahh, c'mon, Buck. You know I’ve always wanted to crash a car on purpose and then sleep in it," he said. 

“You’ve always wanted to do a lot’a things, Rogers,” Bucky shot back. “Maybe you should add _‘learn how to use sarcasm’_ to that list.” 

Steve laughed, shaking his head as they turned together and started back toward the bronze Subaru. “You’re as bad as Sam and Nat.” 

“No one,” Bucky said, “is as bad as those assholes.” 

“Be fair, Buck. Nat’s actually not that bad.” 

“Oh yes she is. She’s just more subtle. Sometimes you don’t know you’re being insulted until it’s too late. Which is actually worse.” 

Steve was still chuckling as he slid into the driver’s seat. He fished the keys out of his pocket and started the engine. “How do you know? You two weren’t exactly hanging out before—” He stopped. Struggled for a moment as if searching for the right words. “Before Wakanda,” he finished lamely. 

Bucky didn’t answer. He slid into the seat next to Steve’s, keeping his expression perfectly blank. His gaze stayed fixed straight ahead. After a few moments, the silence began to get awkward, so he cleared his throat loudly and asked, “where were you thinking of staying tonight?” 

Steve looked at him sideways—there was confusion written across his features—but he didn’t try to change the subject back. “I dunno.” He shrugged. “Natasha helped me get camping supplies at REI, so—” 

Bucky cut him off with a burst of laughter. He couldn’t help it—the thought of two of the most dangerous and wanted individuals in the world casually shopping at a sporting goods store was too damn much. Besides, he was absolutely exhausted, which (for some reason) made everything about a thousand times funnier. 

“Are you done?” Steve asked as he turned the Subaru around and steered it back toward the highway. 

“Sure, sure,” Bucky said, wiping at his eyes. “Go on.” 

“Nat helped me get camping supplies a little while ago, in case we ever had to go on the run in the wilderness. She also got us a much more low-profile car.” He patted the steering wheel. “Which, by the way, reminds me. That Camaro wasn’t your idea, was it?” 

“No fuckin’ way.” Bucky put up his hands. “That was 100% Wilson’s fault.” 

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you guys got away.” 

“Guess it’s better to be lucky than good,” Bucky said. “Or maybe the cops between here and Nevada weren’t on their best game today.” 

After that, they drove in silence for a long while. They didn’t see a single car on the road; the sun had fully set now, leaving behind a stain of scarlet on the wispy white clouds. _Like blood on white tiles,_ Bucky thought, and barely hid a grimace at the thought. Ever since leaving Area 51, the faces of the men and woman that he had fought and killed in the cryo room had haunted him. _Who were they? What did they want with me?_ Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like Steve, Natasha, or Sam knew any more than he did, which meant that he might have to wait quite a while before those questions were answered. _I need to know. If anyone still has the trigger sequence, it’s dangerous for me to be out of cryo._ He swallowed hard at the thought, his mind instinctively shying away from the possibility of going back into stasis. 

“You okay, Buck?” Steve didn’t look right at him. He didn’t need to—some minuscule shift in Bucky’s posture or expression must have given away his inner turmoil. 

“Uh, yeah. I’m doin’ fine.” Bucky forced his lips into a crooked half-smile. He hoped it looked more convincing than it felt. “You want me to take the wheel for a while?” 

Steve shook his head. The red glow spreading across the sagebrush and brown grass touched his face. Lit up his eyes. Somehow, even with hellfire glinting off his skin, Steve still looked like a goddamn angel. It wasn’t even close to fair, Bucky thought. 

“Nah, I’m fine,” Steve said. “It’s just a couple more miles to the campsite, anyway. Nat said it’s right on the river.” 

Bucky nodded. He didn’t speak again for the rest of the (very short) drive. Beside them, the waters of the Columbia River rolled by, lapping at shores almost a quarter mile apart. The sun had disappeared completely, leaving a sky full of stars so bright, Bucky almost didn't believe they were real. There was no way that anything so far away could look close enough to touch, he thought, watching the little flecks of white high above flicker and pulse. 

Steve pulled over beside a sign labeled _‘Ginko Petrified Forest Campgrounds.’_ The sign was the only manmade thing, apart from the road and the car, that Bucky had seen since waking up in Eastern Washington. All around him, miles upon miles of untouched land stretched away to the distant hills of the horizon, the vast expanse strangely comforting after so many months and years of confinement. _I can see anything coming from here,_ he thought. It didn’t matter—truck, helicopter, SWAT team—they wouldn’t have a chance in the world of getting the jump on him here. 

“So, uh, this spot work for you?” Steve said. He killed the car’s engine, opened the door, and stepped out beside the camping sign. “I’ve got a tent, but I still haven’t set it up. Nat said it comes with instructions, so—” 

“Who needs instructions for a tent?” Bucky snorted. He followed Steve out of the car, letting the door slam beside him. “You know how many tents I’ve set up in my life?” 

Steve smiled. “Those weren’t as complicated as this one, Buck.” 

“Like hell they weren’t.” Bucky walked around the back of the Subaru. He opened the trunk, ducking under the door to rifle through their supplies. Tent, sleeping bags, laptop, food, cooler, maps… “Looks like you’ve got us covered,” he called over his shoulder to Steve. 

“Yeah, Natasha made sure I didn’t forget anything,” Steve replied. “The guns are in the secret compartment under the cooler. Ammo is in the glove department.” 

“Oh, good idea,” Bucky said sarcastically. “So if we get pulled over and asked to show the car’s registration papers, we can make sure the officer gets a good view of all the ammo we’ve got stashed while we're digging around in there. That’ll really put us on their good side.” 

Steve sighed. “I’ll put it in the back with the guns.” 

“No. Put it under one of the seats. If someone breaks into our car and finds a stash of guns _and_ ammo, and then finds us—wanted criminals, last I checked—that’s not gonna be pretty for anyone. I’m trying not to kill people anymore, remember?” 

Steve didn’t reply, but he did as Bucky suggested. “So. Tent." He cleared his throat, closing the side door behind him. "You wanna start handing me poles? Nat said that you actually set up the entire pole structure before attaching the tarp. It’s supposed to be easier.” 

In Bucky’s not-so-humble opinion, this new-fangled method of tent-setup was just about the opposite of _'easier.'_ After half an hour of struggling and watching Steve struggle, their efforts illuminated only by the dull light of the stars overhead, they’d managed to break two poles, put a good-sized rip in the rain tarp, and drop a sleeping bag in the dust. The only flashlight they had was out of batteries, and Steve’s Smartphone was hardly a replacement. 

“That’s it,” Bucky said at last, throwing down a bag filled with stakes and throwing up his hands. “I give up. Where are the goddamn instructions?” 

Barely concealing the smile threatening to cross his lips, Steve reached into the tent bag and extracted a thick booklet of white paper. “Wow,” he said, rifling through it. “There’s a lot of steps in here. No wonder we were having a hard time.” 

“Just read me the fucking thing, Rogers.” Bucky’s head was beginning to hurt. It was nearing midnight, and with every minute that passed, his will to stay standing dropped by another 1%. He was getting close to the _‘fuck-it-all-and-sleep-in-the-car’_ stage, and the only reason he was still on his feet and not in the car was because he didn’t want to admit defeat in front of Steve. 

Steve began to read. Bucky did his best to follow along— _“Put the WHAT in the WHERE?”_ —but despite his best efforts, the finished product ended up looking absolutely nothing like the picture on the front of the bag. 

“Fuck it,” he said when he’d run out of poles to stick together. He reached for the stake bag. “I need to sleep.” 

“Yeah.” Steve yawned tremendously. “Want help with those?” 

Together, they staked down the tent, making sure to secure it over a semi-flat patch of desert not far from the car. And then at last, at _long last,_ it was over. Bucky was the first to crawl into their new shelter, kicking off his boots as he went. Steve was close behind. 

“It’s smaller than I thought,” Bucky commented once they were both inside. “You sure we’re both gonna fit?” 

Steve bit his bottom lip. For some reason, he looked almost nervous. “I’ll sleep in the car, if you want.” 

For one horrible moment, the thought crossed Bucky’s mind that Steve might actually be afraid of him. _And he has every right to be,_ he thought. Bitterness flooded his mind, dampening his already terrible mood. “Nah.” He smiled, trying to shake the sinking feeling trying to settle in his chest. “Wouldn’t want you to get lonely in there.” 

Steve’s smile was as tense and tight as Bucky’s felt. “I’m used to it,” he said. Although his tone was light, Bucky felt as if a thousand tons had fallen on him at Steve’s words. 

“Yeah, well.” Bucky wasn’t sure what to say to that. So instead of offering any sort of real reply, he began to unpack the sleeping bags and bed rolls. As he laid them out side-by-side, beating on the hard camping pillows in a vain attempt to soften them, he couldn’t help but add, “you don’t have to worry about being lonely now, Stevie. I’m not leaving you alone ever again. Promise.” As soon as the words were out, he realized that it was too much, too intimate, too _revealing_ , and Bucky wished he could take them back. But he couldn’t, so he went for the second best thing: covering up with humor. A time-tested method of concealing his feelings that had been working since the 1930s, as far as he could remember. “Last time I left you alone, you crashed a goddamn plane, got frozen for 70 years, and woke up again just to pick a fight with aliens. And I don’t even wanna know what other shit you’ve been up to that Barton, Wilson, and Romanov haven’t had the chance to tell me about yet. So you better get used to having me around, Steve, ‘cause apparently I’m 100% of your impulse control. You crazy punk.” 

“Ahh, c’mon, Buck,” Steve said, smiling broadly again. “That’s not fair. Sam and Nat are at least 2% of my impulse control.” 

“ _Sam?_ ” Bucky raised an eyebrow incredulously. “Are you talking about the guy who used a fucking _neon green_ sports car as a getaway vehicle?” 

Steve chuckled. “You're never gonna let that go, are you?" 

“And then _smashed that sports car into three police cars?_ ” Bucky continued, cutting Steve off. He slid off his jacket, but kept the rest of his clothes on. He wormed his way into one of the sleeping bags. The cool night air sweeping through the tent was blissful against his face as the almost uncomfortable warmth of the down sleeping bag surrounded him. “ _That_ Sam?” 

“Yeah,” Steve sighed, defeated. “So maybe Sam’s only 0.5%.” 

“That’s being generous.” Bucky watched, the hint of a smirk on his face, as Steve assembled his own bed and settled down for the night. “It’d say he's more like negative 10%.” 

Steve powered down his phone, plunging the tent into total darkness. Even in the darkness, Bucky could tell that he was still smiling. “’Night, Buck,” he said. 

“’Night, Stevie,” Bucky said. Turning over, he let his eyes slide shut. He was asleep in seconds.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is from Steve's POV. I had a bit of a hard time writing a few things in here, so sorry if it seems a bit disjointed in places!

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**CHAPTER FOUR**

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_TIME: 7:30 AM, May 30, 2017_

_LOCATION: Ginko Petrified Forest, Washington, USA_

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The sun rose far too early for Steve’s liking. Fingers of warmth crept across the tent, seeping through cracks in the tarp and into his eyes. He turned over, bringing one arm up to shield his face, and rolled against something hard and cold. “Wha--?” he murmured, still half asleep. Lifting his head, he looked around, blinking against the brightness of first light. 

“Morning, Steve.” The cold hard thing turned out to be Bucky’s bionic arm. As Steve rose, attempting to tame his short but unruly blond hair with his fingers, Bucky turned over to face him, propped up on his metal limb. Bucky was smiling slightly. His blue eyes were dark behind the thick strands of brown falling across his face. “I’m shocked you’re up. Thought you might sleep ‘till noon.” 

“And why’s that, Buck?” Steve asked, stifling a yawn. 

Bucky studied him. There seemed to be something hidden behind his carefully neutral expression (Steve had been getting that feeling last night during their car ride, as well) and his eyes, once so bright and full of carefree amusement, were as shadowed as a new moon. Only the faintest sliver of radiance remained. It was all that was left of the charming, kind man who had once stood between Steve and what must have been half of the thugs and bullies in Brooklyn a thousand years ago. 

Or at least that’s how long it felt to Steve now, sitting in a tent watching Bucky’s expression shift from blank to slightly pained. 

“You want to get breakfast somewhere? Maybe there’s a good diner nearby.” Bucky started to roll up his sleeping bag. Steve watched him work, following the quick, nimble movements of his fingers as Bucky tied a string around the neatly-folded material. “Seems like the best diners are out in the country, or in the desert.” 

“Yeah, sounds great,” Steve said, trying for cheerful and falling painfully short. He got to work on cleaning up his half of the tent. 

It was nearing 8 AM by the time they’d packed, loaded the car, and gotten back out on the road. Bucky was very quiet through all of it, a little frown on his face and a crease between his eyes. Like he was thinking hard about something unsettling. Once, when Steve slammed the trunk shut without warning, Bucky noticeably startled, and reached for the place on his thigh where his concealed knife used to lie. Steve had tried to apologize, but Bucky had just shaken his head, smiling a forced smile and assuring Steve that there was nothing to be sorry for. 

“So, uh,” Steve began, once they’d cleared away all signs that they’d been in the area (just in case someone particularly determined came looking) and set off for the nearest town. “What’s goin' on, Buck?” 

Bucky looked away at that, straight through the windshield and off into the distance. The crease between his eyes deepened. He shrugged. “Guess I could ask you the same thing, Steve.” A beat of silence. “Did Natali… did Romanov ever explain what happened in Nevada?” 

Steve couldn’t help it—he shot Bucky a look of surprise at his correction of Natasha's name. _Was he about to call her Natalie?_ Steve knew that had been one of her cover names in the past. And he knew that Natasha had encountered the Winter Soldier while protecting a scientist a decade or so back. Was it possible, then, that Bucky and Natasha had actually met _prior_ to the Avengers civil war? 

Bucky didn’t look directly at Steve, even when the silence began to grow uncomfortable. He sat there, frozen in place, his eyes blank and his mouth pressed into a thin line. Steve wondered vaguely, and not for the first time since their reunion, if Bucky really trusted him anymore. If there wasn’t something so broken in his best friend that their once-unbreakable bond could ever truly be reforged. 

Sighing, Steve took one hand off the wheel to run it through his short hair. “She didn’t say much,” he admitted. It was true: Natasha had not been particularly forth-coming with details during the past few days. Days they’d spent searching desperately for Bucky after his disappearance from T’Challa’s Wakandan facility, where he’d been being kept in stasis until a way to reverse the damage HYDRA had done to his mind could be found. “I think she knows more than she’s letting on, but, uh—” 

“She wasn’t letting on?” 

“Yeah, exactly.” Another long silence. Steve cleared his throat, trying and failing to cover his discomfort. “Buck. The guys who attacked you, after you woke up. Do you know who they were?” 

Bucky looked away again, this time out the passenger-side window. Steve couldn’t see his face. Couldn’t gauge his reaction. “Romanov had a man working with them," he replied. "The van driver. And you’re telling me she didn’t know who they were?” 

Steve shook his head. “She must’ve contacted their driver because she knew he’d turn on his bosses, for the right price. Maybe that was all she knew about him.” 

“Bullshit.” Bucky spoke through clenched teeth. “She just didn’t tell you.” 

Steve’s eyebrows contracted. That didn’t make sense. Natasha trusted him, and he trusted her. There was no reason she wouldn’t have told him, if she’d known something as important as the identities of the men attempting to steal the Winter Soldier from the U.S. military. “Why wouldn’t she have?” 

“They were HYDRA,” Bucky said. This time, there was no real emotion in his voice. The anger coming through so strongly a moment before was gone. Washed away by a surge of resignation and weariness. “Or ex-HYDRA, at least. I recognized one of them. His voice. I’d heard it before. Must’ve been a technician, or a scientist.” 

Steve felt a sharp, painful twisting in his gut. “So Nat thought—” 

“That you wouldn’t handle that news well, no,” Bucky finished for him, still in that dead, tired monotone. “Thought you might do something stupid. Like run off and take them all on yourself. You’ve done that before. Can’t really blame her for strategically avoiding the truth this time around.” 

Steve smiled, but it was as tight and painful as the clenching in his heart. “I don’t blame her,” he said. “She’s right. That’s exactly what I woulda done.” He swallowed hard. “Guess it’s just not in me to leave a situation alone when you’re in danger, Buck. Can’t trust anyone else with you. Not even the people I’d trust with my life, I can't trust 'em with yours.” 

Bucky didn’t reply. He didn’t look back over, either. But, out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw the ex-assassin’s shoulders fall, the tension in his posture relax slightly. A victory, Steve thought. A tiny, wonderful victory. 

The sun was climbing over the hills far away. Its light seeped across sagebrush and dusty grass, bright and golden as a polished wedding band. Patches of white swam in an ocean of blue overhead; white-bellied sharks gliding through a watery pasture. There was a smell in the air like earthy perfume. As rich and solid as the land itself. 

On the Subaru’s GPS, the time estimated before their arrival in Ellensburg was 50 minutes. 50 more minutes of tense silence and awkward questions, if the first five were anything to go off of, Steve thought with a resigned sigh. 

The time before arrival had dropped to 25 minutes when Bucky broke the silence again. Suddenly, and without prompting, he spoke, taking Steve by surprise. “You know what’s funny?” Bucky said. His voice broke. Steve looked at him, and saw that he’d gone back to staring out the front window. There was the ghost of a smile on his lips. Bucky cleared his throat, and tried again. “You know what’s funny, Steve? I forgot my own name long before I forgot yours.” 

Steve didn’t find that funny, not at all. But he smiled anyway, because Bucky was smiling, and he wanted them to match. 

Bucky looked at him then, actually met his gaze for the first time since they’d gotten in the car, and fireworks went off in Steve’s chest. _Beautiful,_ was all Steve could think. Even broken and torn at the edges, even crumbling into a thousand pieces, Bucky was breathtaking. The two of them were ancient temples of truth and loyalty standing alone amidst the ruins of a city. Chipped and abused, leaning on pillars of cracked stone, but standing nonetheless. 

If only they had been built side-by-side, Steve thought. If only he could reach out and give Bucky back some of his light. He’d gladly lose his own if it meant restoring Bucky to his former radiance. 

But when had fate ever been so kind? 

• • • • • •

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_TIME: 8:45 AM, May 30, 2017_

_LOCATION: Ellensburg, Washington, USA_

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The diner where they stopped for breakfast was on the edge of the small country town of Ellensberg, Washington, located between a hotel complex and the interstate 90. The rushing of cars speeding by mixed with the gentle hum of a generator’s fan. The scent of cinnamon and fresh-baked pie crust permeated the air. A calm, lazy aura lay around the little blue-roofed building. An odd feeling of home-away-from home. 

Steve took a seat in the booth that Bucky had picked out, near a large window and adjacent to the emergency exit. Steve didn’t question the choice: he, too, was tense enough being out in public—even in such a small, remote restaurant as this one—without feeling trapped and cornered as well. Besides, after many years of fighting and planning battles, it just felt _right_ to know that a quick escape route was accessible at all times. Like a mental worry-stone to rub; a reminder that he was safe. _That_ we’re _safe. That we can get out if we need to. That no one’s gonna catch us, no one’s gonna take him away from me again._

Bucky took the seat opposite him, sliding into the booth and dragging his arm across the table as he did so. For a moment, his sleeve slid up, exposing a patch of metal between cuff and glove; Bucky didn’t seem to notice, so Steve leaned across the table and yanked the fabric back into place. The last thing they needed was for someone to recognize them. And, unfortunately, shady-looking men with metal arms weren’t exactly an everyday sight. People tended to notice things like that. 

Not that Bucky looked shady. Or maybe he did, a _little,_ but it wasn’t his fault, Steve thought. Anyone would look iffy wearing long sleeves and a baseball cap on a hot spring morning like this. There wasn’t even air conditioning in the diner, and Bucky had to be on the verge of passing out from heat stroke. 

Okay, so maybe that was an exaggeration. But still. It was _damn_ hot. 

“What’re you getting?” Bucky slapped his hand, palm down, on a laminated menu, pulling it toward him. “I was thinking of just having pie.” 

“Aww, c’mon, Bucky. One slice of pie won’t be enough. We’ll have to pull over for food again in half an hour.” Steve grinned. Although Bucky’s serum may have been a bastardized version of the one he himself received, it was still powerful enough to raise Bucky’s metabolic rate to several times that of an average human's. Which meant they both needed to eat often, and eat a lot. 

Bucky raised his eyebrows. He matched Steve’s smile with a smirk. “Not a slice. A _whole pie.”_ He gestured to the selection on the menu, where every flavor under the sun was listed in neat, elegant text. “They have real cherry pie, Stevie. With whole cherries.” 

“Yeah, okay. That does sound pretty good.” Steve reached for his own menu. “But I think I’m gonna have to stick with something that has bacon.” 

“Bacon pie,” Bucky said thoughtfully, chewing on his bottom lip. “Wonder if that’s a thing yet.” 

Steve snorted with laughter, shaking his head. “Maybe that’s what you’ll be known someday.” He put on his best USO-speech-show-face, complete with blindingly white smile. “‘And now I’d like to welcome to my show Bucky Barnes, inventor of the famous bacon pie--’” 

Bucky smacked his hand hard with the menu, but despite his best efforts to conceal the fact, Steve could tell he was smiling. “Shut up, punk.” 

“No, I’m serious; maybe you could even write a cookbook: _America’s Weirdest Pies That No One Asked For_.” 

“ _But Are Actually Delicious_ ,” Bucky added, “ _And Rogers Doesn’t Get Any Because He’s Being An Ass._ ” 

Steve couldn’t help it—he burst out laughing, his whole body shaking as he fought to regain his composure. Somehow, miraculously, Bucky kept a perfectly straight face, which only made it funnier. The bastard. 

By the time the server came by a few moments later, Steve was wiping tears from his eyes. It had been so long, so _damn long_ since he’d been able to laugh like that. Like nothing was wrong, like he was careless and free once more. It was like a dam had broken somewhere in him, and it had all come pouring out at once. A flood of emotions presenting themselves as a torrent of amusement. 

“What can I get you?” The waitress was tall and pretty, with sparkling brown eyes and a full, kind smile. “Any drinks or appetizers to go with your breakfast?” 

Bucky didn’t look up. His gaze was cast down, the brim of his baseball cap shading his eyes, as he answered: “I’ll have a whole cherry pie.” 

“To share,” Steve quickly added. “For dessert.” He offered the woman a quick smile. “We’ll also be splitting the special. With buttermilk pancakes, poached eggs, and bacon, please.” 

“Got it.” She jotted their order on her notepad, looking up to return his smile. And then, for a moment, her eyes narrowed, and he was afraid she’d recognized him. Until she said, “I _swear_ I’ve seen you in something before. Have you ever done any acting, by any chance?” 

Steve shook his head, reaching up to pull his own cap down a little lower, hiding the give-away blond of his hair. “Not that I’m aware of, ma’am.” 

The waitress tipped her head, obviously thinking hard. “Hmm. Are you sure you weren’t in that movie about climate change, er… what was it called? Oh yeah, _Snowpiercer_ , that was it! That was a great movie.” Her smile was dazzling. “You look a lot like the lead actor in that.” 

“That’s, uh, that’s great. But I’m not an actor.” Steve stumbled over his words, unsure how to respond. He’d never seen the movie she was talking about, after all. So he just smiled awkwardly, hoping that his total lack of tact would help hide his true identity. 

“Well, he did do a little acting back in his early days,” Bucky cut in, and Steve glanced at him with wide eyes. Steve gave a small, barely visible shake of his head, warning him off. “What? You did.” Bucky’s eyes glowed beneath his hat. The beginning of a smirk twisted his lips. “He did commercials for a few years in college,” he told the waitress, who immediately lit up at being addressed directly by him. 

“Oh, that’s nice!” She smiled. “Maybe that’s where I saw him, then. What kind of ads did he do?” 

“Perfume,” Bucky said, and Steve brought one hand up to cover his eyes, fighting the urge to groan aloud. 

“Oh, okay, sweet.” The girl turned away, still smiling that bright, blinding smile. “I’ll bring you your pie right away. The special will be ready in a few.” 

“Seriously?” Steve said, once she was out of earshot. “C’mon, Buck. I save you from the embarrassment of having to order a whole pie for yourself, and _that’s_ how you repay me?” 

“It’s better than telling her you used to dance around in a flag-colored leotard,” Bucky said, lifting one eyebrow. “You should be goddamn thankful you got off as easy as that, Rogers.” 

“It wasn’t a leotard,” Steve shot back, insulted; “it was a bodysuit.” 

Bucky snorted. “Like that makes it better.” 

Just as promised, the waitress brought the pie immediately. The scent of it hit Steve full-force as she set it on the table. A warm, sweet, almost earthy smell, so rich and thick it made his head swim. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized just how hungry he really was. 

“There you are, sirs,” she said, tipping an invisible hat. “Enjoy!” She walked back toward the kitchen, humming under her breath as she went. 

“That does looks pretty damn good,” Steve admitted as he watched Bucky pulled the pie toward him, digging in with a fork and knife. “Maybe I shoulda gotten a piece for myself.” 

Bucky shrugged. He shoved the pan across the table toward Steve, gesturing to the two shiny porcelain plates that the waitress had left beside the dessert. “We’re sharing, remember?” 

Steve smiled as he cut a piece, lifting it onto his plate. “You’re the best, Bucky,” he said.

Bucky’s mouth was too full to reply, but he rolled his eyes. It got the sentiment through better than any words could have, Steve thought. 

“What do ya think of this whole Captain America scandal, then?” One of three men sitting at the booth across the aisle from Steve and Bucky spoke, chewing a mouthful of hash browns and brandishing a forkful of eggs at his comrades as he did. 

Steve’s heart jolted painfully inside his chest. _Shit,_ he thought. He looked away, reaching up to adjust his cap once again. _What if they recognize me?_

“Dunno.” The man across the table from the fork-brandisher shrugged. “Guess I never really cared much for him in the first place. Anyone selling themselves as that good and pure’s gotta have one helluva dark side, if you ask me.” 

“Yeah, but fuckin' _HYDRA?”_ The third man shook his head, looking somber. “Never woulda believed it myself, if it weren’t for that Dick Spanker guy. Real detective, he is, digging up all that dirt like that.” 

“He’s the real hero of this story, y’know,” the first man said, swallowing loudly. He tipped the eggs on his fork into his mouth. “Revealing that traitorous bastard for what he really is. Thank God we’ve got real, _good_ men in the military and U.N. handling the situation.” 

Steve looked up in surprise, trying to catch Bucky’s eye. But Bucky wasn’t looking at him. He was glaring openly at the men in the next booth over, secrecy seemingly forgotten in the wake of a wave of blatant disgust and anger. 

“Buck,” Steve said, his voice low and urgent. _“Don’t.”_

Bucky seemed to be vibrating slightly. As if he was physically restraining himself from getting up and hitting each and every one of those men in the face. Multiple times, most likely. Probably with the metal fist. 

“Pers’nally, if I ev’r saw Cap’n ‘M’rca,” the man continued, his mouth full of eggs. He chewed loudly, enthusiastically waving his now-empty fork before his face, “or the Wint’r Soldier, I’d shoot ‘em both in the head. Just like that. Then they’d call me a ‘ero, eh?” He laughed, and his friends joined in with nods and chuckles of their own. “Goddamn fuckin’ traitors and murderers. An insult to this country, that’s what they are. A goddamn insult.” 

Bucky stood up suddenly. Steve rose with him. Reaching across the table, he took a firm hold of Bucky’s upper arm, restraining the Winter Soldier as he made for the men across the aisle. “Bucky,” Steve said, his voice low and intense. “It doesn’t matter. Let it go.” 

“Let me go,” Bucky snarled. His eyes were dark, fierce, wild. Cold. 

“Listen to me.” Steve tightened his grip. He moved around the edge of the booth, positioning himself so that he stood between Bucky and his intended victims. “I don’t care what they say about me, Buck. I really don’t. What I do care about is _you._ I lost my reputation because I couldn’t lose _you._ And if you start a fight right here, right now, it’s over for us. We’ll get caught, and end up on The Raft, if we’re lucky. And if we’re not—” Steve trailed off. Letting the unspoken truth hang between them like a sharpened blade above their heads. 

Bucky ground his teeth. His jaw ticked, and the muscles beneath Steve’s hand twisted like snakes as he flexed his right arm. And then, after what felt like eons, but must have been only seconds, he relaxed, turning away from the men in the booth. “Fine,” he grit out between clenched teeth, “but let’s get outta here. Before I lose it.” 

“Yeah.” Steve made a gesture toward the half-finished pie still sitting on the table. “Should we--?” 

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Not hungry,” he said shortly. “Take it, if you want.” 

Steve nodded. Still keeping one eye on Bucky (just in case, just in _case_ ) he made his way to the register, where the young waitress was busy counting and sorting cash. “Excuse me,” he said, trying his best to keep a small, easy smile in place as he spoke, “could we get a couple of to-go boxes?” 

“Oh!” she said, doe-brown eyes wide. “You’re leaving already?” 

“Well, my uh, my friend’s not feeling great." Steve stumbled over his words. "Turns out trying to eat a whole pie in one sitting is a bad idea.” He forced a chuckle. “I coulda told him that.” 

The waitress giggled. “I know how that is.” She rolled her eyes as she turned toward the shelf behind her, reaching for a pair of small Styrofoam boxes. She offered them to Steve, who took them with a grateful smile. Before he could turn away, she added, “My girlfriend loves to go to theme parks, but she doesn’t know when to stop when it comes to those big ol’ cheese pretzels. You know, the _really_ big ones.” She smiled fondly, shaking her head. “I always tell her to stop before she gets sick, but she just doesn’t listen to anyone. Not even me, if you’d believe that! Anyway,” she paused for breath, “I hope you two have a good day, and that your friend feels better soon. I’ll get your breakfast all boxed up for you while you sort out the bill.” She slid a piece of paper clipped to a small board across the desk toward him, offering a friendly flash of her teeth before going back to her counting. 

Steve took the clipboard, digging through his pockets until he found the right amount to pay for their food. He clipped it to the board, and set it back down on the counter. The waitress took it, nodding and murmuring a quick, “Thanks!” as she added the new bills to her pile. 

Steve returned to the table, where Bucky was now sitting with his head cradled between his palms. The ex-assassin’s face was screwed up, eyes closed, nose wrinkled and teeth showing, as if he were in pain. For a moment, Steve was concerned, until he realized that Bucky was trying to block out the voices of the men across from them. 

“Buck,” he said, none-too-loudly, for fear of alerting suspicions. After all, _‘Bucky’_ wasn’t exactly a common name, especially not in the 21st century. When there was no response, Steve reached out and tapped Bucky on the arm. 

Bucky flinched. His eyes flew open, and he looked up with wide eyes at Steve. He relaxed when he recognized him, shoulders falling and hands sliding off his ears. “C’mon,” he muttered, standing up and shoving his way out of the booth. “I gotta get outside. Now.” 

“Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you,” Steve promised, clapping his friend on the shoulder as he passed. Bucky hesitated for a long moment, lips parted as if he wanted to protest. But then he nodded brusquely, heading for the exit without another word. 

Steve gathered up the second half of the pie, and dumped into one of the Styrofoam boxes. Although he didn’t have his hands free to cover his ears as Bucky had done, he did his best to block out the conversation in the next booth over, which had not yet shifted topics. 

“This Dick Spanker guy is saying that the whole thing with the ice was just a ploy,” the man with the scrambled eggs was saying. “He hacked into SHIELD and HYDRA’s files and found proof, apparently. Rogers wasn’t even frozen, turns out. Guess he was just out there killing people for HYDRA, like the Winter Soldier. Until they needed him back out in the open, of course.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I heard,” his buddy chimed in. He had a thin, high voice, like the whine of a wasp. “Guess he had a hand in the Winter Soldier program, too. Makes sense. But damn, a guy’s gotta be pretty gone in the head to hand over his best friend to a program like that.” He paused for effect. “Or maybe Barnes was in on it, too. Maybe he _wanted_ to turn on America, after the war. He lost his arm, after all. Maybe he wanted revenge.” 

Steve closed his eyes. His ears were ringing. His heart thundered against his ribs. Fury cloaked his senses in a sheet of red. _Ignore them,_ he told himself. _Just turn around and walk away. Ignore them._

“The Winter Soldier, Captain America, and Black Widow,” the third man said. “HYDRA's favorite spies. Can’t believe anyone believed that Avengers bullshit in the first place.” 

“Well, if they catch any of them, I’d be happy to see that justice is done,” the first man said grimly. His mouth was obviously overflowing again, by the way his words slurred. “’cept for Widow. I’d give her another kind of justice, if you know what I mean.” He laughed, whistling shrilly. His buddies joined in with catcalls of their own. 

_Nope, that's it,_ Steve thought. He set down the pie. Clenching his hands into fists, he turned toward the men at the table. _I can’t do it anymore. One of them is getting hit._

“What’re you lookin’ at, pal?” The guy with his mouth full said. He looked Steve up and down, taking in the tense, angry stance. “You gotta problem?” 

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Stand up.” 

The man looked at his friends, waggling his eyebrows. “Oooh, you wanna start something?” He rolled up his sleeves. “Bring it on, muscle-man.” He rose from his seat, getting right up in Steve’s face. He was much bigger standing than he’d first appeared. Not that that concerned Steve in any way—no matter how strong this guy was, Steve was stronger. “You get offended over my thoughts on the Black Widow, or somethin’? Well guess what, horseshit, that foreign whore is a dirty little traitorous slut-bag bitch who—” 

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Steve cut him off loudly, trying and failing to control the furious wavering of his voice, “or I will.” 

The man laughed. He shot his friends a glance over his shoulder. “Big tough man,” he said. “Thinks he’s a real 'ero.” He shifted into action like a striking snake. Swinging at Steve’s face with an uppercut. 

Or at least that’s what it was _meant_ to be. Steve dodged the attack easily, and the punch went askew. Seizing his opponent by the front of his jacket, Steve lifted the unlucky man into the air and slammed him down—hard—onto the table, right between his two friends. Eggs, pancake, syrup, and ketchup exploded onto all three men, speckling their clothing with yellow, brown, and red. With adrenaline racing in his veins and blood pounding in his ears, Steve lifted his fist, preparing to knock a few of the man’s teeth out along with his dignity. 

But something caught hold of Steve’s arm before the blow could fall. Wrenched him back, away from the prone man and his wide-eyed cronies. “C’mon,” Bucky growled in Steve’s ear. “Let’s get outta here.” 

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the three men as Bucky dragged him out the front door. Both Styrofoam boxes—one containing the pie, the other the untouched bacon, eggs, and pancakes—lay forgotten behind them. 

As he pushed past the double-doors and emerged into the warm, dry air outside the diner, Steve swore he heard Bucky mutter, “Every _fucking' _time, I swear to God.”__

Only when they were out in the parking lot did Steve finally recognize the gravity of what he’d done. _Oh, fuck._

Wordlessly, the two super-soldiers piled into the Subaru. Steve started the engine, and pulled out onto the road. 

In the not-too-far distance, sirens began to scream.


End file.
